His Daughter
by SummerRed
Summary: It was just the two of them now. Spoilers for episode 3.05.


Don't own Downton Abbey or any of its characters; if I did, Sybil would still be alive.

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**His Daughter**

This wasn't right.

Not the silence that had fallen over the house, not the sisterly moment he had just witnessed, and most of all not that his beautiful, young wife lay dead on the bed in front of him.

Women died in childbirth, he knew that all too well, but not Sybil. Never Sybil.

She was strong, one of the strongest people he knew, and she would have fought until the very end.

Which she had, of course she had.

But death was far stronger than her, and cared little for Tom's tearful pleas.

And so he was alone.

A cry sounded in the room next door, and he remembered that he was not alone, not now.

His daughter survived. His daughter was his last connection to Sybil. His daughter needed him.

He rose to his feet immediately, before hesitating and glancing back at his wife in torment.

The thought of leaving her alone, of leaving her to be taken away from him and placed in a coffin tore at his heart, made his stomach roll and his pulse quicken in fear.

His daughter survived. His daughter was his last connection to Sybil. His daughter needed him.

He bowed forward, brushing his lips against Sybil's icy forehead and whispering, "I'll be back, I promise."

He spun around, running to the door and yanking it open, wanting nothing more than to run from this place and never look back, to go back to their little home in Dublin, open the front door and see Sybil waiting for him, carrying his child and smiling and alive.

But he had to stay.

Sybil was here, and so was his daughter.

His daughter survived. His daughter was his last connection to Sybil. His daughter needed him.

He froze as he reached his daughter's room, one hand outstretched as he caught sight of the undertakers making their way up the stairs.

"A minute," he said desperately, raising one hand in surrender or refusal, he wasn't sure which. "Just another minute more, please."

The closest undertaker nodded gravely-could an undertaker be anything but?-and turned away, gesturing to his colleagues as they made their way back down the stairs.

He let out a ragged sigh of relief, and opened the door.

"Hello," he murmured, walking as quietly as he could towards the crib and reaching down for his daughter. "Hello, my little darling."

He cradled her against his chest, her warmth a balm to his broken and lonesome soul after the coldness of her mother's touch, her eyelids fluttering against her flushed cheeks.

She still needed a name, he realised, the thought hitting him like a fist.

He and Sybil had talked about names they liked, but none seemed adequate now.

A part of him wanted to name her Sybil in her mother's memory, but the thought of having to say his wife's name every day and not hear her voice reply made him want to scream.

He would choose tomorrow, when the pain was not so raw.

He snorted at that, knowing that whilst the pain would eventually fade, the grief and sense of loss would never leave him.

But he still had his daughter, and perhaps she would help to fill the void her mother had left.

His daughter survived. His daughter was his last connection to Sybil. His daughter needed him.

Making his way back to his wife's bedside, he knelt awkwardly, ensuring both arms were still secure around his daughter as he reached one hand forward, resting it lightly over Sybil's.

"This is your mother," he whispered, gazing down at his daughter, his baby. Their baby. "Your mammy, you would have called her if we'd stayed in Ireland. And maybe one day we'll go back there, when it's safe for us both. Maybe we'll go to Liverpool and I'll teach you everything there is to know about cars and we'll visit the docks every day, and I'll tell you everything about your mammy and how we fell in love. Maybe we won't, because your mammy wasn't too keen on that idea; she didn't want us to go backwards. So we won't, will we? No, me and you, we'll keep going forwards, the two of us together. And we'll do it for her, won't we? No matter what your grandfather or aunts have to say. Me and you, we'll be alright. You'll see," he said, and his voice broke, the tears coming thick and fast now as he turned back to Sybil, forcing himself to breathe, to take in her beauty, his wife, for the last time.

He wouldn't see her again. He couldn't.

It was enough to see her like this, frozen and pale and still in death; leaving her now would be the hardest thing he would have to do in his entire life.

But to do it again?

He would remember her as she had been.

He would remember the feel of her lips against his.

He would remember the sound of her voice telling him she loved him.

He would remember the sight of her in her wedding dress.

He would remember the look on her face as she told him she was pregnant.

He would remember her as they sat together only a hours earlier staring down at their daughter for the first time.

"Say goodbye to her, my little darling. Because that's your mammy, and she was the best person I ever knew, and she loved you very, very much. Just like I do. Like we always will."

His daughter let out a cry, her tiny hands balled into fists, and he cried along with her.

"I know," was all he said. "I know, my little darling."

His face crumpled as he realised what he was about to do, what words would have to pass through his lips.

"Goodnight, my love," he said, his voice low and choked, his hand trembling against her cold, porcelain skin. "God bless."

He stood slowly, his heart racing as he began to walk out of the room, each step more painful than the last until finally he reached the door, the undertakers once again at the top of the stairs.

He nodded, and they bowed their heads in understanding, murmuring condolences he didn't want to hear.

He re-entered his daughter's room, heading straight for the window and staring out at the grounds Sybil had loved so much, ignoring any noise he heard from the next room.

In his arms, his daughter shifted slightly in her sleep, her breaths coming in little snuffles.

His daughter was the most beautiful thing in the world, and he knew she would take after Sybil, in both looks and personality, and he felt no jealously at the prospect, only pride.

His daughter would not be raised as an upper class lady. She would be free to run wild and play as a child, be free to enter whatever profession she chose, and most importantly of all she would be free to love and marry whoever she wished, be it a lord or a chauffeur.

His daughter was all he had now, and he was going to do everything in his power to do right by her.

His daughter survived. His daughter was his last connection to Sybil. His daughter needed him.


End file.
